The massive pillar of ice collapsed with a thunderous groan then, fracturing into a rain of jagged shards that clattered across the marble like broken teeth.
The whole room seemed to inhale as the impact settled, the frost-cloud drifting upward in a heavy, shimmering veil.
I stood there, half-hidden behind the lingering smoke of magic, heart pounding, chest tight, a cold ache still running through my knuckles. My hand stung where bone had met Quentin’s nuts, and for a half-second I wondered if I’d actually broken something in myself.
But then the fog thinned, and Iskanda walked out from the drifting whiteness, and suddenly every ache in my body felt very small and very stupid in comparison to whatever remained of her fury.
She dusted her hands off with a brisk swipe, as though she’d just finished rearranging furniture instead of stopping a pillar meant to crush her outright.
Her steps were steady, unfazed, boots crunching over frost and shards without slowing. The air still rippled with cold, but she didn’t so much as shiver. She came to a stop above Quentin’s crumpled form.
He was curled around his groin in a pitiful heap, making strangled noises into the floor. I winced instinctively. Even after everything, that kind of agony belonged in its own special corner of hell.
Iskanda didn’t wince. She tilted her head down at him for a long moment, unreadable, then lifted her gaze to me. Her brow rose. A pointed, unimpressed peak.
"Where in the nine hells," she said, "did you learn that?"
I let out a tiny, very dignified squeak in response, followed by a nervous giggle that absolutely betrayed the fact that I was still shaking. "It’s... a long story," I breathed, waving my hand with a flourish so weak it probably made me look concussed.
She stared at me as if weighing whether the long story involved demonic artistry, questionable life choices, or some unholy blend of both. Which, unfortunately, was terribly accurate.
Finally she sighed, slow and deep, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "Fine, we’ll discuss this later."
I nodded so quickly I almost sprained something.
Then she turned her attention back to Quentin.
Her expression shifted—no fury now, just cool, efficient judgment. She kicked him in the side with enough force to jolt him several inches across the frost-slick marble.
"Up."
Quentin choked on a gasp, clutching his ribs, but forced himself onto his knees. His hair hung in frozen clumps around his face, his breath shuddering in white streams. He knelt before her like a prisoner awaiting his sentence, shoulders trembling, one hand bracing against the slick ice below.
Iskanda extended her hand toward the ground. The frost near her boots rippled, then parted. Her spear rose from the floor as though pulled from the marrow of the earth itself, reforming, reassembling, dragging shadows and cold with it. She gripped it by the center of the shaft, then pressed its wicked point to Quentin’s throat.
Quentin swallowed hard. Then his mouth opened, and the rambling began.
"I—Iskanda, I—I didn’t— It wasn’t— I didn’t mean to— I swear by the Saints, by the old gods, by every frost-bound— I was only— I didn’t know— please— please don’t kill me— I wasn’t thinking— I was angry— I was provoked— it’s your fault— no— I mean— not your fault— but— I— I didn’t—"
I couldn’t help it. A little snicker escaped me, slipping out far too loud for the moment. Iskanda didn’t react, but Quentin shot me a glare that would’ve been intimidating if he weren’t currently kneeling, shaking, and dripping blood onto the floor like an overripe fruit.
"What are you going to do to me?" Quentin managed, voice cracking like thin ice.
Iskanda angled her spear a fraction closer. "What choice do I have? You’ve disgraced yourself, your station, and this entire chamber. The punishment is obvious."
Quentin whimpered—an honest-to-gods squeak, thin and sharp.
But before Iskanda could speak another word, a sound rolled in from the hall. A quiet, rhythmic squeaking. Wheel against stone, slow and deliberate.
Iskanda’s head snapped up. My spine straightened as I turned to face the double doors, breath suspended in my throat.
"You will do no such thing."
The voice was gravel poured over ancient stone—deep, aged, commanding enough to fold the air around it.
Elvina, who I had completely forgotten existed for a moment, scrambled backward like a terrified spider. She slipped in her own puddle, shrieked, then managed to right herself and scamper behind Quentin as if that would offer any protection.
And then they emerged.
First came the shadow of the wheelchair, pushed forward from the darkness of the hallway. Then the man himself—old, white-haired, slightly balding at the crown, a thick beard bristling like frost-touched iron.
His eyes were half-lidded beneath heavy wrinkles, but I could still sense the sharpness beneath. He wore tan robes embroidered with symbols I didn’t recognize, yet the weight of them hit me like a physical thing. Authority. Power. Silence woven into thread.
But it wasn’t him that stole my breath.
No.
It was the one behind him.
The boy pushing the wheelchair stepped into the light, and my lungs forgot how to function. He was... Saints above, he was beautiful. Not the playful, seductive beauty of a Velvet, nor the polished grandeur of noble heirs. This was something brighter, something startling, the kind of beauty that felt like stepping into sunlight after months underground.
His white hair fell in a messy spill around his face, soft and feathered at the tips, catching the light in silvery strands. His eyes—gods—his eyes were crystalline blue, clearer than morning frost, brighter than any jewel I’d ever seen.
He carried himself with a shy stiffness, a slight nervous downturn to his mouth, a soft hesitation in the way he glanced around the room. His white ceremonial robes draped over him like snow on a young tree, embroidered with pale silver threads that shimmered when he moved.
Beautiful wasn’t the right word. He was poetry carved into flesh—gentle, trembling, impossibly pure.
And then I saw it.
His collar.
It was made of glass.
Intricate, delicate latticework encasing his throat like a cage forged from moonlight.
A Glasswick.
My heart jolted. My breath nearly fled my body.
A Glasswick. One of the highest caste of servants—no, not servants, treasures. Living rarities given only to nobles of immense power. Elusive, protected, scarcely ever glimpsed by the public.
Saints above. There was a Glasswick. Here. In this hall.
And instantly, as if a silent command rippled through the room, both Iskanda and Quentin dropped to one knee. They lowered their heads so quickly the air shifted around them, voices overlapping in urgent unison.
"Director Thalen."
The old man raised an eyebrow as though unimpressed with all present lifeforms.
I leaned in close to Iskanda, whispering, "Who is he?"
Her voice was barely audible. "He’s the owner of the Spire. The single most powerful person in the Velvet Chambers."
My blood ran cold.
Director Thalen extended a hand backward without looking. "Tora. My cane."
The boy startled faintly. "R-right away, sir."
He lifted his hand. And reality... bent.
Not dramatically. No explosion, no crack of power, no burst of light. It was gentler than that. Like the world sighed, and an object simply arrived at its rightful destination.
The air folded. A soft snap echoed through the room. And the cane materialized midair before him—a delicate thing carved from pale oakwood, set with gold, polished smooth by generations of handling.
Tora flinched and caught it with his hand, then offered it up with a little bow. Director Thalen took it, muttering something gravelly under his breath, then slowly rose from the wheelchair.
I had expected him to wobble or slip on the frost-slick floor, but the man moved with a surprising steadiness, stepping forward without hesitation, each step carrying an authority that made the room seem smaller.
He walked past the shattered ice, past the torn tapestries and broken stone. Then he turned his gaze to the four of us.
And Saints above... In that moment I truly wished I had stayed behind Sir Stiffbottom.